


Teardrops

by SilverShortyyy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8985601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverShortyyy/pseuds/SilverShortyyy
Summary: Teardrop (n): something that is shaped like a falling tear.Tear (n): a transparent drop of fluid.
What if Severus Snape was saved by teardrops?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic relies more on the movie (Deathly Hallows Part 2) so I apologize for any information I got wrong when it came to the books. As of now, I am still planning to read the books after watching the movies, so my knowledge on the books is quite limited.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“You really have your mother’s eyes.”

There’s no stopping Nagini’s venom that punctured through Snape’s neck, no stopping the excessive amount of blood pouring out, no stopping the imminent death of Severus Snape.

And in Harry’s hand is the last bit of life Snape has, or had; a few teardrops in a small vial.

_“Take them to the Pensieve.”_

Harry clutches the vial in his hands while he watches the light leave Snape’s eyes.

Behind him, Hermione grips her wand and grits her teeth. Just a split second before Snape lets go, Hermione’s lips part and a quick whisper floats around the room.

“ _Totalus petrificus_.”

It’s as if Snape’s body became frozen in time.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron nearly shouts at Hermione. If not for his Potions professor lying right there and nearly dead, Ron is sure he could have shouted even louder. With fear or shock or anger, Ron couldn’t say. “Isn’t it supposed to be _petrificus totalus_?”

Harry’s head snaps to Hermione as soon as Ron speaks, eyes wide with shock and horror at what Hermione just did. Did that spell even exist?

“Hermione, are you sure you did that right?” Harry asks with the slightest tremor in his voice.

Hermione looks at them both with apparent horror in her eyes and trembling hands.

“You-know-who can only become the master of the Wand if Snape is dead but if Snape is only half-dead then the Wand only half-answers to You-know-who so that way-”

“Breath, ‘Mione!”

Hermione takes a deep breath, though eyes still wide with horror.

“-That way Voldemort can be convinced the Wand answers to him without Snape having to die.”

Ron and Harry look at each other, both matching looks of fear and near insanity. They both have to admit, what Hermione just did was equal parts insane, dangerous, brilliant, and scary.

“How are we supposed to save him?” Harry asks Hermione, clutching the vial in his pocket much more now.

“It’s not like there’s a potion to save a life literally a second from death.”

Hermione looks to Harry, and Ron follows her gaze.

It takes a second, then it clicks.

With incredulous eyes, Harry turns to Hermione.

“Where the bloody hell are we going to get Phoenix tears?!”

Hermione guiltily smiles and averts her eyes to the ground. Exasperated, Harry kneels down with a firm grip on Snape.

“I can Apparate without Snape dying on me, right?” When Harry looks at Hermione, Hermione just nods before watching Harry Apparate with Snape.

 

 

The Headmaster’s Office had never looked so condescending before.

Then again, that was back when it had been Dumbledore’s, not Snape’s. Dumbledore’s, not a Death Eater’s.

Pushing his hatred away, Harry begins to walk to the Pensieve before it comes out of its place and onto the Headmaster’s table.

Harry didn’t even know if he should hate Snape anymore. Sure, compassion would’ve been reasonable had Snape just died a Death Eater, but even Harry wasn’t daft enough to believe Snape giving his memories for Harry to watch meant nothing.

Snape could’ve mustered the last of his strength to call on Voldemort. Or he could have simply died in silence.

Except he didn’t.

Just before Harry dipped his head into Snape’s memories, Harry heard the faint squawk of what he thought might be Fawkes in the Headmaster’s office.

* * *

Snape. Snape as a kid. As a weird, eerie, creepy kid with extremely pale skin and black hair. And black eyes. And dark clothing as if he was in his gothic phase early.

Snape. Emerging from a tree. Snape, and a girl.

A girl with magic.

_“You’re special.”_ He tells her in the shade of a tree, lying beside her without any interference from the outside world.

Snape. Getting sorted into Slytherin. And looking longingly and apologetically at the same girl—only older, as he is too—who had apparently been sorted into Gryffindor.

Snape. And the memory Harry once saw in his Occlumency lessons. Where James Potter bullied Snape.

Snape, as a Hogwarts student bullied by James Potter, defended by Lily Evans, only Snape refused Lily’s help, which initiated their fallout.

Snape.

He was in love with her.

Snape. The Death Eater. Finding out about Voldemort’s plans. To kill, to end the lives, to cease the existence of Lily and James Potter and their child. And he pleads for Voldemort to spare her, to spare Lily J. Potter, in which Voldemort asks what Snape would give.

_“Anything,”_ and anything he gave.

Snape. Asking help from Dumbledore, who answers him but never prevails.

Snape. Who loses the only person he’s ever loved. Who cradles her in his arms as he cries as her child does: in complete and utter agony. Because losing someone is never easy. Because, even if she never returned his feelings, even if he pushed her away, even if they had torn themselves apart so many years back, he loved her— _loves_ her—because no matter what happens to him, Severus Snape will always love Lily J. Evans, even if she becomes and did become a Potter.

Snape. Who loves Lily enough to swear to protect her child.

Snape.

Who began to care for that child. That child that looked and acted and reminded him too much of James Arrogance Potter but nevertheless Snape began to care for him, though Snape would never say.

Snape.

_“After all this time?”_

_“_ _Always.”_

Whose Patronus led Potter to find the Sword of Gryffindor. Who exhausted himself thinking of a way to keep Potter alive.

Because Potter couldn’t die. _Harry_ had to live, not to keep his legend alive, but just to _live_ and _survive_.

Severus Snape.

Who had loved and loves Lily Potter, Harry’s mother, and who would give his life for Harry to live.

_“You really have your mother’s eyes.”_  

* * *

When Harry resurfaces, he feels something slide down his cheek.

Although the Pensieve isn’t made out of water, Harry tries to convince himself it comes from there. Surely he couldn’t be shedding a tear for Professor Snape.

Even if Snape died for him. _Would have_ died for him.

Because when Harry turns around, where Snape’s body had been is a scorch on the wall and a red feather on the ground.

Fawkes had been there. And had a Death Eater been there, Harry is sure he would know. But there was no evidence nor sign, only a red feather to go by.

That’s when Voldemort spoke, and for once Harry knows clearly and completely what he needs to, wants to, and has to do.

* * *

He didn’t know where he was. Because all Snape remembers was seeing Harry Potter’s eyes then seeing the light, but never really getting blinded as he’s sure one is supposed to in death.

Death.

He’s dead.

… But maybe not quite.

Except where was he?

He feels a presence by him, though who or what he couldn’t point out. If it were Dumbledore and may the man rest in peace, Snape would know. If it were a Death Eater, he would know.

Though even if he chooses to listen closely, he hears nothing remotely familiar.

Only the distant splash of waves against rocks and the blockage of wind that smells nothing like fire nor war.

When he opens his eyes, he’s not quite sure if there is still pain in his neck or if it is just a lingering sting. He’s sure, though, of drops of what might be water though don’t feel anything like water on whatever might be the remains of his wound.

He’s dead, he’s sure, except he couldn’t possibly.

Before he could sit up, his vision clouds again, the last thing he remembers being the purr of a bird (why in the name of Merlin would there be a bird beside him by his neck) and the last drop of a liquid on his stinging wound.

It’s a calm night, in a calm place. Maybe if he listens a little more closely, he’ll hear the crackling fire of Hell.

* * *

“Harry Potter... Is dead!” Voldemort shouts with cheer. What a glorious day! He has won over these insolent people who believe in weakness!

“ _Confringo_!” Voldemort doesn’t remember the speech of that boy named Longbottom—who cares about inspirational speeches and words of hope anyway—but he does remember hearing Harry Potter speak.

And oh that wretched boy lives. Again.

_What I’d do to see that boy writhing in pain before he dies,_ Voldemort thinks to himself, _to be able to relish every delightful sound and second before that proud little cub finally gets bathed by the color of his damned house._

And oh the glory indeed if Harry Potter could just stay still and let Voldemort, once and for all, kill the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

Hermione looks to Ron before they burst off for the Chamber of Secrets.

“A bit coincidental don’t you think?” Ron says between pants. “We’re going to the Chamber of Secrets to get something that could have killed Harry, and Harry went to Dumbledore’s Phoenix to ask for some tears that saved him before,” Ron pauses, panting, “when he was injured _in_ the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Yes Ron, what a coincidence.” Hermione says before grabbing Ron by the wrist and pulling him into the next corridor. “Also the Basilisk tooth can’t kill Harry; the wound it inflicts and the poison it carries can.”

* * *

When Snape wakes up the second time, the sun is high in the sky and a feathery head nudges at where he’s sure his death wound should be. He moves to sit up, and he sees at his left is Dumbledore’s firebird, a piece of parchment beneath its talons and its head having been nuzzled at the crook of Snape’s neck.

A tear drops from the bird’s face, plopping down onto the parchment to reveal swirling black ink.

Snape frowns at the bird and makes to get the parchment, to which the bird obliges and steps aside.

As soon as he touches the parchment, Snape relives the last few hours of what he puts together as the phoenix’s memories, as well as his own hazy ones from, apparently, being put in a split-second spell created by none other than Ms. Granger herself.

He’ll have to reprimand her for that. Had it gone wrong, he’s willing to guess he might’ve been petrified or would slowly die as a figure of stone.

Except it went perfectly fine and his only question is how the hell Granger did it.

When the memories stop flashing, only one name echoes in his mind.

_Potter._

As of what he understands, the phoenix left with him before Potter had raised his face from the Pensieve. Also, his wand is probably still at his death place. How nice of Potter to leave something that important.

Enough of that, Snape thinks. At a breath, his eyes snap from the parchment to the bird, and as if to acknowledge his wish, the bird flaps onto his back. With parchment in hand, Snape watches himself set ablaze by the bird, watches his reflection in the water below. Bit by bit the flames disappear, and so does his body, and soon enough, his vision blackens and is consumed, instead, in fire.

* * *

Harry breaks the Elder Wand in two and throws it into the valley.

The fight’s been hard. Painful. With so many losses.

Finally, it’s over.

With a sigh, he pulls his friends back to their school, Hermione’s eyes brimming with tears and Ron’s smile nearly tearing at his face. Harry, on the other hand, couldn’t help but just be contented. His friends’ hands are warm, and so is the sun, and so is the fact that Voldemort is gone and will never be coming back.

Finally. It’s over.

“Potter.” Marching steps come closer and closer, faster and faster.

Ron looks at Hermione with surprised and amazed eyes, while Hermione looks at the two while trying to suppress a surely incoming jump for joy. Harry’s eyes simply widen while his mouth is left agape, unbelieving of what his ears—and Ron and Hermione’s ears too—are giving him.

“Potter!” None of the three could bring themselves to look behind. For a myriad of reasons. Countless reasons being impossible to point out, as well as the worded reasons being the most childish and pathetic. “Were you thinking of burying me without my wand, you insolent child?”

“Squawk!” Fawkes flaps away and into the horizon, bursting into flames like the sun and disappearing from view beyond the castle of Hogwarts.

“Well?” The man seems to be at his wits ends, or so Potter jokingly thought.

“Well, Professor Snape,” Harry says, turning around slowly, hoping he doesn’t burst into tears at the sight or gets brokenhearted if the entire thing is only their imagination. “I was afraid you’d hunt me down when you find out I’m hiding your wand.”

The longer Harry stares, the more he couldn’t believe and yet hoped it to be true.

Soon, Snape is at arm’s reach. That same greasy hair, that same insufferable frown, that same aggravating look of disdain at everything he sets his eyes on. The three of them all couldn’t believe what they are feeling. They are actually happy to see Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master, Death Eater, and Slytherin Head.

But somehow, when Snape’s eyes soften at Harry, they couldn’t see why not.

“I believe you made good use of the tears I gave you?” If Hermione didn’t live through the past twenty-four hours, she wouldn’t believe it if anyone said she’d see care and concern in Snape’s eyes. And yet, right now, she does.

“Yes, Professor.” And if Ron hadn’t gone through the entirety of the past twenty-four hours, he doubts he would believe Harry would ever look at Snape with a smile. A real, genuine, happy smile. And yet, right now, he does.

“And Ms. Granger made up a spell that miraculously didn’t turn me into a rock?” Harry had hated Snape just twenty-four hours ago, and if his present self were to tell his past self he would be looking at Snape right now, happy to see Snape alive and well, looking into Snape’s eyes with gratitude and—Harry would never really admit this, though for the sake of the moment, but only in his head—love, he’d likely have blasted his visiting self into another continent. But here they are now, and Harry couldn’t see why he would want things to be different.

“Yes, Professor-”

“Though I would like to add, Professor, that I had been thinking of what switching the incantations of a spell would do, since second year.”

Snape raises his brow, but his eyes are completely and utterly without malice.

Had he not tried to lie to himself before, Snape would find this completely acceptable. _Easily_ acceptable. Even for his past self. But as it may be, his daft self refused to acknowledge he could have ever cared about Harry Potter, let alone the boy’s possy of a muggle-born know-it-all and a Weasley. And yet here he is.

 Here, in this moment, Severus Snape reveled in the Golden Trio around him, and finally, for once, indulged himself in the affection he feels for Potter.

In this moment he won’t lie. Not when the day is so bright and beautiful.

“Well, Ms. Granger, you still do have to complete your schooling before you can begin work as a witch and officially apply your made up and possibly dangerous spells, or need I remind you that you have missed part of the year while the three of you were busy being fugitives?”

Harry let out a snort at that, then Hermione, then Ron, and the trio couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at all they’ve been through. Laugh at this moment. Laugh, because smiling didn’t seem to be enough.

Laugh, and for the first time in how long, Severus feels himself smile despite himself.

A warm, genuine smile.

As warm as the sun. As genuine as the trio’s laughter.

From the corner of his eyes, Snape lets a tear fall, and he indulges himself this moment, this moment where he is free and unbound. Alive. Breathing.

Happy.


End file.
